


Big game hunted

by embeer2004



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, But different, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hope, Injury, Rescue, Scoia'tael and their ideals, Swearing, Trapped, Witcher 3 dropped game plot, life goes on - Freeform, snarky bastards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:41:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24717709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/embeer2004/pseuds/embeer2004
Summary: His head hurt. His back hurt. Everything hurt, but his leg… That thing attached to his body was not his leg. It was fire. It was sharp and dullagony.He didn’t want to look down. He was screwed, he knew that already.No witcher dies in his bed.
Comments: 16
Kudos: 70
Collections: Witcher Rarepair Discord Collection





	Big game hunted

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [You Might as Well Live](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24485650) by [BawdyBean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BawdyBean/pseuds/BawdyBean). 



> Inspired by ‘You might as well live’ by BawdyBean – this story can be considered a follow-up of that one – set somewhere in the future after that, though it’s not needed to have read that story in order to understand this one. 
> 
> Thanks bookscorpion, for sparring about summaries and titles! <3
> 
> About the story: Just a general warning that Iorveth is not fond of humans, Scoia’tael tactics are nasty, and Iorveth’s definitely applied them to get what he wanted, be it information or revenge. The tactics are only vaguely hinted at here in this story, but the Scoia’tael’s mindset certainly becomes apparent, even though nowadays, Iorveth doesn’t tend to act on that mindset anymore, except for when he’s on a hunt. 
> 
> Translations for Hen Linge in the endnotes!

Coverart created by the lovely [bookscorpion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookscorpion/pseuds/bookscorpion) \- thank you so much! <3  
  
  


* * *

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ … **_FUCK_**!”  
  
Lambert pounded the ground with his fist and instantly hissed as agonising tendrils of fiery lightning rushed through half his body, stealing away his breath. The forest around him was doing weird things, like swimming in the air, and trees were doing curly things, hugging and twisting into each other before disappearing in a pool of stars. Just looking at it was nauseating enough, so Lambert looked away, or at least he tried – the misbehaving trees and stars were following him – and clenched his jaw, trying to breathe through the pain.  
  
Closing his eyes, he immediately started spinning. The entire world around him was turning, like a barrel rolling madly down a hill. Spinning and spinning, going faster… and he was in that barrel, pressed against its edges, rolling and flattened and _spinning_ …  
  
“No…” Lambert muttered, quickly opening his eyes and steeling himself for what was to come. At least like this his head didn’t feel like it was hurtling away. Especially if he only focused on the tiny shooting stars in front of him.  
  
His head hurt. His back hurt. Everything hurt, but his leg…  
  
That thing attached to his body was not his leg. It was fire. It was sharp and dull _agony_.  
  
He didn’t want to look down.  
  
He was screwed, he knew that already.  
  
_No witcher dies in his bed,_ Vesemir’s calm voice echoed in his mind.  
  
“And you… just _had_ … to prove that,” Lambert hissed out between shuddering breaths. Hot tears trailed their way down his temples, leaving tickling cool paths in their wake. “Stupid… old man. Geralt. Made him… stupid too.” Breathing deeper, Lambert willed the pain to just _go away_. “Always… playing… the friggin’ hero.”  
  
Not Lambert. Nope. Not him.  
  
Being the hero got you killed.  
  
Lambert had really hoped that he and his brothers would be the exception to the whole not dying in bed thing.  
  
Last time he took a friggin’ contract. He was done. No more witchering for him.  
  
Quite literally.  
  
Keira was gonna kill him if he didn’t come home.  
  
_Keira can’t kill you if you die here,_ Aiden told him in a light voice, and Lambert just knew that the bastard had that particular smirk on his face. The one in which his eyes twinkled and those little dimples in his cheeks…  
  
Lambert willed the memory away. “Shut up,” he ordered Aiden. “You too,” he told Vesemir. The old witcher had better be listening; he just wasn’t in the mood to deal with both of them.  
  
Guess he was gonna have to look after all and see what could be done about the mess he was in. Keira would never forgive him if he gave up. And Eskel and Geralt…  
  
Angrily shaking his head, Lambert quickly remembered why moving was a _bad idea_. Thumping lightning instantly ran up and down his leg, all the way to his belly, holding his body hostage, and it felt like someone had punched him just beneath his sternum.  
  
“F-fu-…” he breathed airily, trying to suck in some precious air, but he was like a fish on dry land; his mouth was open, but he couldn’t _breathe_.  
  
_Focus on my voice, love. Feel the air passing through your nose. Breathe in… feel the air passing through the tip… And out…_ Aiden’s voice rang clearly through his mind, calm and reassuring.  
  
A sob tore out of Lambert’s throat, but he focused on Aiden’s soothing voice and tried to breathe with him. _In… and out._ And again, and again, until finally he’d gotten his breath back. His eyes burnt hotly, and he was oddly aware of new wet tracks trailing towards his temples. “Don’t do this,” he whined quietly. “You promised.”  
  
_Yeah, well. So did you,_ Aiden replied. _And yet, here we are.  
_  
“ _Aiden_ ,” Lambert pleaded, feeling a hollow clenching in his chest. Sniffling, he tried to look up and meet Aiden’s eyes, but of course the cat witcher was nowhere in sight.   
  
_She’s going to raze the town to the ground if you die, you know that right? They **lied** ,_ Aiden told him, and his voice had turned darker.  
  
Lambert huffed a laugh, his breath stuttering as his leg jerked. The whole left side of his body felt like one awfully pulled funny bone, and there was nothing humorous about it.  
  
_Breathe, love. Relax and **breathe**._ Aiden tried to soothe him.  
  
Aiden wasn’t here. He wasn’t real. Not him, not Vesemir…  
  
It wasn’t fair.  
  
Keira had told him that hearing Aiden’s and Vesemir’s voices was actually quite normal, and apparently the whole phenomenon was considered a helpful way to deal with grief.  
  
Normal, sure. Not like he had ever heard Coën, though.  
  
_Come on, Lambert. Breathe in… and out, you can do it,_ Aiden encouraged. _Keep still and focus on breathing away the pain, blow it out…  
_  
Going against instincts that were screaming at him to _Flee! Run away_!, Lambert let himself be guided by Aiden once again, and, inch by inch, he willed his body to relax. _In… and out._ There was only the air passing through his nose. Nothing else. Well, his body, slowly being replaced by a limp sack of sand, that’s what else, but he could easily tune his heavy-growing limbs out as he focused on pushing away the fiery pain on every exhale.  
  
Slowly, the pain ebbed and the world returned. The shooting stars faded and the trees finally behaved like trees again: still and silent, only leaves rustling in the wind. None of that creepy crawly curling whirling they’d done before.  
  
“Good trees…” Lambert praised them gently. After all, good behaviour should be rewarded, shouldn’t it?  
  
_Your brothers and your lover certainly think so,_ Aiden quipped fondly.   
  
Eskel. Geralt.  
  
Keira.  
  
He remembered only just in time that wildly shaking his head was _not_ a good idea.  
  
Making sure to keep the lower half of his body as still as possible, Lambert raised a trembling hand and wiped at his eyes. So far so good. His head felt a bit clearer, but the sharp throbbing at the base of his skull told him he’d received a good knocking. Looking up at the trees, Lambert noticed they at least were still behaving and they didn’t seem fuzzy, so he likely didn’t have a concussion.  
  
Staring upward, Lambert spotted the rocky plateau he’d just fallen from.  
  
_You were pushed, love,_ Aiden interjected.  
  
“The queen…” Lambert started, before trailing off, trying to remember.  
  
He’d been hired to take out a nest of kikimores, but what he’d actually stumbled upon were two endrega queens, protecting their hatches of eggs.  
  
But it hadn’t been the endregas that had pushed him off the plateau.  
  
“The man…” Lambert frowned, trying to spot the human he’d saved from the nekkers just moments before the endregas had shown up. The two monster species cohabited well, but while Lambert had been prepared to take out a burrow of kikimores he’d had to adjust his game when, instead of smallish insects, dozens of the nearly-cute-if-they-weren’t-actually-vicious-killers ogroids had shown up, followed by the two giant queens.  
  
“The man,” Lambert repeated thoughtfully, getting his thoughts back on track. His brow furrowed as he finally recalled the human’s face. He was pretty sure that it had been one of the ealdorman’s lackeys.  
  
Figures. He should have kept an eye on the true monsters out there. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_! _  
_  
Damn, but that plateau was high up, how was he even still alive?  
  
Making sure not to move his legs, Lambert pushed at the ground; his arms trembling as he compensated for the small spasms in his lower back. He didn’t get far before the pain made him stop, and, leaning back on his elbows, he actually could feel the colour leeching from his face as he looked down.  
  
“How in the…? _Fuck!_ ” Lambert shouted in disbelief.  
  
So typical. He just couldn’t do things the standard way for once, could he?  
  
Mom always said he was different.  
  
How the frick had he ended up triggering some sort of bear trap with his _knee_?  
  
Besides falling with said knee in said trap.  
  
His whole body felt like it was covered in a cold sweat, and the air was growing thinner with each breath. His heart was thumping heavily in his chest, pounding away at his sternum.  
  
Lambert forced himself to start in on the meditative breathing he’d been taught in Kaer Morhen, the very same technique Aiden had been guiding him through only moments before.  
  
_Calm yourself, wolf!_ Vesemir called sharply, using that tone he always got when he was concerned. _Panic will only get you killed. You’re a witcher, control yourself!  
_  
“Already… on it… old man,” he sneered, the irrational anger that had bubbled up allowing him to focus on his meditative breathing.   
  
Feeling like his mind was floating, Lambert looked down at his leg and examined it as best as he could. He would have liked to pretend that he was actually standing well and fine next to a pitiful, trapped human lying on the hard forest floor, but nope… his mind was having none of that. That folded hump of buzzing agony down below was his own leg.   
  
He was fucked, no two ways about it.  
  
His knee had triggered the trap’s mechanism, and now his thigh and calf were bearing the brunt of the damage. The agonising pain burnt yet was dull at the same time, like a sleeping limb and an enormous carpet shock combined, and through it all Lambert couldn’t feel if his leg was broken. With the way his leg was folded he couldn’t visually determine it either, and the metal of the jaws further obscured his view. He could only see the teeth digging into his trousers, and the blood marring his pants.  
  
The little he could see from this angle, though, was that his upper leg indeed looked particularly mauled, and he was so _not_ going to roll around just to see if his leg was broken. He could find that out _after_ he’d gotten himself free.  
  
Narrowing his eyes, Lambert sighed in resignation. Even traps smaller than this could do crushing damage, so who was he kidding? No, his leg was likely definitely broken…  
  
_Focus! Learn all you can, then deduce the best way forward,_ Vesemir instructed.  
  
Feeling all weird, like he’d always imagined swimming underwater in molasses to feel like, Lambert examined the trap the best he could. It looked like a giant bear trap, though there were no bears in this area; Lambert would have smelled them. No, this trap was meant for something else and whatever it was it was large and required heavy steel. Perhaps it had been meant for one of the queens, who knew?  
  
A metal chain was trailing from the hole in the stock end and led up to a row of several pickets that had been hammered into the hard ground, a few arm lengths away.  
  
All right. He _so_ didn’t want to do this…  
  
Steeling himself, Lambert breathed in deeply before pushing himself into an upright seated position, trying not to jostle his injured leg in any way. His back spasmed and throbbed fiercely even before he got halfway, and he collapsed, the back of his head smacking against the hard ground. The swords on his back dug painfully into his already aching back. He lay there, dazed, a high-pitched noise ringing in his ears.  
  
Oh fuck, it hurt so much.  
  
And the treacherous trees were spinning again.  
  
“Gonna… tell… Esk’l,” Lambert gritted out barely above a whisper, annoyed at the misbehaving trees.  
  
His eyes burnt hotly and his vision got all screwy.  
  
Blindly reaching for his belt, Lambert cursed at feeling the wetness at his side. Blinking furiously, he felt around, searching for the right shape and size, but it seemed like half of his bottles had gotten smashed, including the white gull and swallow. The thunderbolt vial was broken as well, and he didn’t carry any kiss on him, damn it!  
  
He didn’t know how many heartbeats passed before his leg stopped feeling like it was being torn off by an angry chort, but eventually the pain faded to a level that Lambert decided to dub the chort-chew.  
  
He had to get away from here. He was a sitting… lying target.  
  
Lambert glared at the floored pickets. Even if he could wiggle them free from the ground he’d still have to deal with the metal jaws around his leg. And it would take time and effort to even free those pickets and if just sitting up had been any indication already of what he could expect… He was so not removing those pickets. No. His only chance of getting out of this was opening the trap.  
  
Or wait for someone to come by and help.  
  
_Not a good idea,_ Aiden said, sounding all thoughtful and pondering, _the only one likely to come here is the one that laid this trap. And the humans in that town cannot be trusted.  
_   
“Someone else…” Lambert started, before he was interrupted by Vesemir.  
  
_You can’t rely on someone to miraculously pass by and be your knight in shining armour,_ Vesemir growled lowly, and for all his long years Lambert couldn’t remember his old mentor actually growling at anyone. _You wait for help, you die alone. You can’t give up, young wolf. Free yourself. **Fight!**  
_  
Swallowing heavily, Lambert closed his eyes.  
  
A gust of wind whirled around him, and the crackling of dried-up leaves pulled his attention back to his surroundings. He could hear hornets buzzing some distance away, and the light thuds of deer hopping in the underbrush, but here… there was nothing. Just wind in the trees.  
  
Most predators came out at sundown, he still had time; a good few hours, according to the sun’s position.  
  
Time to work. He was like a sitting duck over here and he didn’t like it one bit.  
  
_More like a newborn pup,_ Aiden butted in, a bit wistful. _  
_  
Feeling his hackles rising, Lambert shot the air before him a nasty look, but his irritation drained away as soon as it had come.  
  
They were right. He couldn’t wait for the humans to come and help him. Aiden _must_ be right, he always was, and if he was convinced that the humans had lied about the contract then there was something that Lambert had seen that confirmed it.  
  
One of the ealdorman’s men had pushed him off the plateau, and Lambert was going to get to the bottom of _why_. He couldn’t remember exactly what he’d seen that made Aiden so sure of the humans’ betrayal, but he trusted the word of the cat witcher over any human’s.  
  
That meant he couldn’t trust anyone in the town either. Not any human. If he was found by one of them he’d be dead.  
  
Keira was waiting for him to come back home…  
  
Eskel and Geralt expected to see him in Corvo Bianco this winter…  
  
“Not giving up,” he assured both Vesemir and Aiden.  
  
_Atta boy,_ Lambert heard, but he couldn’t make out which one of his mind phantoms had spoken. _  
_  
It was time…  
  
It took a bit more effort than before, and he was feeling quite dizzy by the time that he had finally managed to push himself up so he could lean on his elbows again. The twinges in his lower back already warned him that he wouldn’t be able to sit up any further, not if he tried to push upwards, but he really had no other choice.  
  
Rolling to the side before wiggling around so he could sit up was out of the question; he’d nearly ended up an unconscious heap one time so far already, just from a minor shifting of his leg. He couldn’t risk it, and sunlight was waning. No… he needed to keep his legs still and push himself up all the way. He just needed to mentally prepare himself to ignore his complaining back; focus his remaining energy.  
  
Moving his thumbs up and lowering his ring and index fingers until they touched, keeping his other fingers straight, Lambert kept his eyes open and focused on his body; imagining on each exhale that another inch of his body was relaxing and growing heavy until he could feel the way that the muscles in his lower back slowly loosened. There was still an uncontrollable flutter, a minor tremor, but this was the best he’d be able to do without any accelerating healing potions.  
  
“Here goes nothing,” he murmured, oh so carefully pushing up and only a tiny bit to the side until he finally was sitting upright.  
  
Step one, complete.  
  
Swallowing around his dry throat, Lambert cautiously touched his left hand to the metal of the trap, light as a feather, seeing and feeling what the situation was, and his heart sank.  
  
He really was screwed.  
  
The metal jaws needed to be pried open, and then he needed leverage to come from the right angle. With the way the trap had bitten into his leg, that meant the leverage had to come from _behind_ him. Jamming one of his swords in between the jaws wasn’t going to do him a bit of good. Even if he managed to get a sword between those jaws there was no way he would be able to pry them even one inch apart; there was no way he could get either leverage or the required force.  
  
That left him with several options, and he already knew one of them – loosening the floor pickets – wasn’t going to get him anywhere. The monsters or wild animals of the forest would get to him before he could crawl his way out, weighted down by the heavy trap, one breath away from consciousness.  
  
And while he was strong, he didn’t think that he could pry those jaws open with his bare hands. But he was definitely going to try.  
  
He was _not_ ready to cut off his own leg with his own friggin’ sword.  
  
His heart started throwing itself at his sternum, pounding and hammering, and Lambert felt like he’d been kicked by a cyclops and was freefalling through a mine pit. Dark edges appeared in his vision, narrowing down his world until there was only his trapped leg, pulsing fire with the same beat as his throbbing heart.  
  
_The belt first, Lambert_ , Vesemir quietly urged. _  
_  
Lambert huffed; the old man had a good point there. With some careful pulls he managed to free his belt from his trousers and looped it around his thigh. Gritting his teeth, he tightened the belt one hand-width above the metal jaws and quickly forced a new hole in the leather band. He made sure to hunch forward when the hot and grinding pain made him so dizzy and nauseous that his vision started wavering. _Definitely broken._  
  
When he could see again, Lambert steeled himself. He would try this, and then once again before resorting to the last and final option he could think of.  
  
The steel on his back was freshly sharpened. At least it’d be quick.  
  
Perhaps…  
  
No.  
  
He couldn’t trust anyone here. Help wasn’t coming…  
  
Willing his trembling hands to behave – and failing – Lambert rested them on the jaws of the metal trap.  
  
This was gonna hurt.  
  
Gripping the metal, he started pulling; trying to ignore the pain that quickly escalated to utter and complete agony. He just had to keep breathing… force himself to keep going.  
  
It was like carrying a wide and heavy box and trying to put it up on a top shelf. A slippery wide box with sharp metal edges, and you needed to push it up through a small hole and twist your elbows upwards first before you could even think of lifting the box up higher and higher.  
  
Impossible…  
  
Lambert had barely pulled the jaws a few millimetres apart when the agony reached a whirling crescendo. The pounding in his ears was becoming deafening, blocking out all other sounds. He felt hollow and like he was on icy fire. Everything stung and throbbed and _screamed_.  
  
The metal in his hands grew slippery. He couldn’t hold on.  
  
The trap snapped shut on his leg, jostling him and sending biting sharp shocks all through his body. He tasted bile in his throat, and there were stars all around him; blinking and fluttering…  
  
Jerking his head to the side, he tried to look for Aiden and Vesemir, but he could only see the stars.   
  
“Sor-ry… screw’d… up,” he rasped out with difficulty.  
  
Then the stars exploded in a bright orange white light, punching the breath out of him, and his consciousness evaporated in the flaming inferno.  
  


* * *

  
It had all been lie. An elaborate ruse, for sure, but Iorveth had been a fool. After they’d been banished from Vergen he’d still dared to _hope_ , and so him and his brothers and sisters had gone in search of the Nilfgaardian scientist who was the key person in this entire mess.  
  
But Hector Krafft Ebbing had long perished, and the little prick that had pretended to be rogue medic had squealed useless information so loudly that by the time Iorveth’s elves had finished with him it was a surprise the storm riders hadn’t shown up.  
  
That reminded him, he needed to send one of his elves to scout the forest for honey.  
  
As for the storm riders… Apparently the icy spectres were Aen Elle, elves from another world, yet from what Gwynbleidd had told him it was clear that their otherworldly counterparts were no better than the Nilfgaardians. Iorveth was all for driving humans into the sea and culling the dangerous vermin, but he would never stoop so low as to actually enslave the creatures.  
  
Saskia had been of the opinion that humans, elves, dwarves and gnomes could all live together in harmony. She was _so_ young and idealistic, but Iorveth had been enchanted by her, such a magnificent creature, and her dream of peace had resonated in him. And even though Iorveth could not stand humans, at least in Vergen there was a truce among the city’s inhabitants, and him and his Scoia’tael had had _homes_. For the first time since they’d been called upon to fight, they’d had a _home_ again.  
  
Iorveth was so tired of everything. Of being used again and again; scorned and banished the moment they were considered no longer useful.  
  
Turn the tide of the battle? Sure. Now _die_ for the empire.  
  
Defend Vergen for a dragon’s ideals? Sure, but…  
  
Saskia had told him to collect his unit and leave while he still could, and while she’d said it was to protect them from the spreading plague, the whole situation was bullshit. It was unfair to cast them out after all that they’d done for Vergen, for _her_ , and now they would die homeless and abandoned.  
  
So what if they were still young and fertile? It was too late to start up a fucking breeding programme. Saskia was mad if she thought to preserve the Aen Seidhe by casting them out of their homes, but she hadn’t listened to his arguments.  
  
They were a dying race; had been from the moment the humans had first arrived on this world, they just hadn’t known it yet. And when it finally had dawned on them they’d all been too proud and stubborn to admit it, Iorveth included. He had believed in Aelirenn, and her idea of casting the humans into the sea, to take back what was theirs. Aelirenn’s dream still appealed to him, though, even after he’d carried Ciaran’s broken body up from the hull of the prison barge. _Especially_ after that. Only now, instead of exhilarating vindication, he felt like he was living in a near-permanent fog as he exacted his revenge, and the few times that the fog cleared he was left feeling hollow.  
  
One dh’oine less, king or beggar…  
  
Letho certainly had done a good job luring him into doing his bidding, and Iorveth’s greediness had cost him. Dearly.  
  
Never again.  
  
Blinking furiously, Iorveth looked up at the sky, clenching his jaw as a wet trail ran from his eye down his cheek.  
  
Huh. Tears… He didn’t think he’d had anymore left.  
  
He’d failed Ciaran, in more ways than one, and it gnawed at Iorveth that he hadn’t even been able to give his dear friend the burial he deserved. Instead he was down with the crabs… if there were any, down on the bottom of the Pontar.   
  
Breathing in deeply, he kept on walking. There was a human town nearby that he was determined to avoid, but this was as far as he was willing to take a detour around it. His unit had already gone on ahead to set up camp along the Marnadal river, while Iorveth had stayed behind to make sure that all the imposter’s possessions burnt in flames. Now that Ebbing was dead and their trail had grown forever cold he just wanted to go back to his unit and sleep for a month.  
  
“Sor-ry… screw’d… up,” a low voice rasped from somewhere in the distance.  
  
Stilling, Iorveth cocked his head and listened, but the voice said nothing else.  
  
Listening to the forest, Iorveth frowned at sensing a disturbance. There was the familiar scuttling of a large insectoid, an arachas or endrega perhaps, but its scuttling was the only noise in an otherwise dead-sounding area. Like a bubble of silence cast in the forest.  
  
He started walking again, intrigued. If the raspy voice belonged to a human then it may carry something of value. Coin or weapons… Food, Iorveth would definitely appreciate that.  
  
Walking in the direction he’d heard the voice come from, Iorveth was sure to be as stealthy as he could. His feet trod lightly on the ground as he weaved in between the trees, taking in his surroundings and paying extra attention to the scuttling noise in the distance.  
  
It wasn’t too long before he came to a halt, having found what he’d been looking for.  
  
There was a human lying on the ground; still and silent. Its leg was bent in an awkward pose, clearly forced to remain in a folded position by the jaws of the metal trap.  
  
Listening closely, Iorveth was satisfied that it was only the two of them, all other creatures far away, though the large insectoid was a bit too close for comfort.  
  
Slinking closer, Iorveth drew his blade from its sheath; prepared.  
  
The human didn’t move, though, and it was either silently biding its time, or unconscious. It was definitely alive; Iorveth could see the human’s chest moving up and down with small jerks.  
  
When he stood one ell’s distance away he immediately gripped his blade tighter, not sure whether to feel relief or to kill the vatt’ghern on the spot. For a vatt’ghern this one was; the two blades strapped to his back and the medallion around his neck clear indicators of his caste.  
  
The shape of the medallion was familiar, though.  
  
Iorveth took a hesitant step closer so he could see it more clearly.  
  
A wolf’s head. In the same style as the ones Gwynbleidd and Deargbleidd wore around their necks.  
  
So this was their brother… Iorveth didn’t think that this was the mentor Gwynbleidd had spoken of, he looked too young, and the four of them were the last vatt’ghern of the school of the wolf. A dying breed, even closer on the verge of extinction than the Aen Seidhe.  
  
Sighing, Iorveth frowned and looked up, searching…  
  
He spotted the rocky plateau nearly a dozen metres up and winced at the thought of falling from such a height, and this one had fallen all right, of that he was certain.  
  
Iorveth’s wince turned into a grimace when he looked down at the metal teeth biting deeply into the man’s flesh. The leather trousers were covered in blood, but not a lot, and a belt was tied around the man’s thigh; clearly a tourniquet to prevent himself from bleeding out once he’d gotten free of the jaws.  
  
Not that the vatt’ghern had had any chance of removing the trap himself, Iorveth realised; not with his swords, and not with his hands. Though the man had certainly tried, his cut up and bloody fingers were evidence of that.  
  
From what he could see there were no other drastic injuries. The vatt’ghern’s right leg seemed unharmed, and there were no cuts or holes in his armour. Not on the front, at least.  
  
“You’re in luck, Dhubleidd,” Iorveth muttered softly, letting his eyes rove over the man’s form and trying to figure out the best approach.  
  
Iorveth let his eye trail from the trap’s chain to the pickets and he nodded, walking up to them. Sheathing his sword, he removed his dagger from his baldric and jammed it into the ground, creating some space as he wiggled the picket to and fro until he could finally pull it up from the ground and untangle it from the metal links. He repeated this several more times before the chain was free. Tucking away his dagger, he picked up the chain and moved back to the unconscious vatt’ghern, then crouched down and released his hold on it.  
  
Now, to roll over the vatt’ghern…  
  
Putting one hand on the man’s shoulder, and the other beneath his left thigh, just above the injury, Iorveth carefully pushed until the man more or less lay on his front, though the trap made rolling him over all the way unwise. Instead, the man’s left leg ended up twisted at an awkward angle, his foot pointing upwards, resting on the back of his right knee, and his left knee rested on the floor. Not an ideal position, but it would have to do.  
  
Iorveth was pleased to see no glaring wounds on the man’s back, though there _was_ a nasty bruise forming near the base of his skull, and he wouldn’t be surprised if the man woke up with ringing ears and blurry sight.  
  
Taking off the glove on his right hand, Iorveth moved slow but with confidence, moving the man’s armour up the best he could, and then his tunic; worming his hand underneath the material so he could feel his skin. It wasn’t too much of an effort, the vatt’ghern wore no chainmail underneath his tunic like Gwynbleidd did and there was enough space, so Iorveth could pretty easily trail his fingers over each bump of the man’s spine.  
  
Satisfied that the man’s back didn’t seem broken, only heavily bruised, Iorveth slipped his glove back on before standing up and unsheathing his sword, reaching for his dagger as well.  
  
“Stay unconscious for a bit longer, Dhubleidd,” he told the vatt’ghern, positioning his sword.  
  
It took some time, too much, in Iorveth’s opinion, and he was heaving from the exertion, feeling all hot and sweaty, but he managed to pry the jaws open nearly all the way using both weapons. Iorveth quickly realised he wouldn’t be able to force the trap fully open, not unless he wanted to do irreparable damage to the vatt’ghern’s leg, and he owed it to Gwynbleidd and Deargbleidd to not mess up their brother too badly. Because what he had to do next was definitely going to mess him up at least some.  
  
It couldn’t be helped. He only had two hands and they were both occupied, and it was not like the unconscious vatt’ghern could contribute to his own rescue.  
  
There were no other options.  
  
Resting all his weight on his left leg, Iorveth moved his right foot underneath the man’s trapped leg and heaved up, following the move with a little shove. The action upset his precarious balance, and he couldn’t hold on anymore; his arms wavered and the metal jaws hungrily snapped shut. Iorveth’s sword flew from his hand, and as he regained his footing he let out an angry breath when he saw his dagger lying in two pieces near the triggered trap.  
  
Slowly he became aware of his heartbeat pounding in his ears, and he forced himself to calm down; he needed to keep an ear out on his surroundings. A careless elf was a dead elf.  
  
Looking back at the vatt’ghern, Iorveth winced in sympathy. The man was twitching, like a stomped on bug; his bloodied fingers curling and spastically releasing over and over again as he instinctively hunched in on himself, his breath rasping and shuddering. He was clearly in agony and no longer oblivious to the world.  
  
Returning to the man’s side, Iorveth hesitantly rested his gloved hand on the clammy brow. “Cáelm, Dhubleidd,” he hushed, one hand straying to his own satchel.  
  
The vatt’ghern’s eyes shot open, wide and panicked, and one of his hands lifted, trembling, and before Iorveth could react there was a sharp glow and he was flung away.  
  
Varh'hewedd.  
  
Shuddering, Iorveth looked down at his own twitching fingers as he tried to breathe through the pain. It felt like he’d been zapped by blue fire, and his skin buzzed painfully, not unlike a bumped elbow. And just like a bumped elbow, the pain was intense, but fleeting, and when it was finally gone Iorveth breathed in relief and could relax his shoulders, which had bunched upwards, nearly touching his ears. He felt off though, drained, as though some of his life energy had been sapped away.  
  
Squinting, Iorveth looked back, seeing the vatt’ghern lying still on the ground. An orange yellow glow had settled over his body, and the colours flickered and shifted as though they were alive.  
  
Iorveth had seen this on Gwynbleidd before; a defensive magic shield. Capable of warding off bolts, this particular shield apparently could inflict damage as well. Impressive.  
  
Brushing some dirt from his donkey jacket, Iorveth stood up and retrieved his sword, sheathing it before returning to the man's side.  
  
The vatt’ghern looked utterly drained, his limbs only sluggishly twitching, but when Iorveth crouched next to his shoulder those unusual eyes looked up at him and a sneer curled the man’s thin lips.  
  
Iorveth cocked his head, silently watching those golden eyes as they hazily roamed over his figure. The man blinked heavily though, and once the burst of adrenalin had worn off he was certain to lose his hold on consciousness. Iorveth had to admire the way this one was glaring at him, struggling to stay aware.  
  
“Calm, Dhubleidd,” Iorveth repeated, shifting to sit on his knees. “I'm a friend of your brothers. Gwy- Geralt, and Eskel.”  
  
“Esk’l?” The vatt’ghern rasped, his golden eyes frantically scanning his surroundings.  
  
Iorveth looked down at the man’s leg, seeing more and more blood starting to mar the trousers. The belt hadn’t been buckled tight enough; time was ticking. “You need medicine, I can help you. Release your sign.”   
  
“S-shove off, _hu-human_!” The man rasped.  
  
Iorveth felt his eyebrows crawling all the way up his forehead. That was the first time in his life that he’d been cursed out for a human and just how fuzzy was that vatt’ghern’s eyesight? “Your eyesight’s shit if you think me human,” he snarled, feeling both furious and perplexed.  
  
“A-and _your_ … mind’s a-addled… if you think… gettin’ closer,” the man snarled back at him.  
  
Right at that time, the magic shield flickered and died out. The injured vatt’ghern moved his fingers. Nothing happened. Realising his magic had failed, the man looked like a deer, trapped within sight of a predator: unmoving, breathing shallowly, eyes on its would-be killer.  
  
“Look,” Iorveth said, turning his head so the man had a clear view of his ear, “pointed, not rounded, do you see?”  
  
Squinting, the vatt’ghern blinked and it was very obvious that he _could not_ see, at least not clear enough.  
  
Feeling confident that the vatt’ghern’s energy was totally spent and that he formed no threat whatsoever, Iorveth quickly grasped the bloody hand closest to him and dragged it up, letting the man feel for himself that his ears were clearly pointed, not rounded.  
  
“H-humans… _lied_ ,” the vatt’ghern told him, lowering his hackles; an apology or an explanation. It didn’t matter.  
  
“They often do, Dhubleidd,” Iorveth replied, “and we’re wasting precious time if you want to keep your leg. Let me help, for I fear the wrath of your brothers should anymore harm befall you while under my care.”  
  
An evil smirk appeared on the man’s face. “Be-better… watch out… for Keira… To the _ground_ ,” the vatt’ghern nodded sagely.  
  
The non sequitur barely made any sense, but Iorveth nodded nonetheless. “We wouldn’t want that, now would we? And they’d be all _sad_ and grieving…”  
  
Eyes glazing over, the vatt’ghern frowned and shook his head, grunting as he jarred his mauled leg. “G-grieving… _sucks,_ ” he said, his eyes wandering.  
  
“Good you agree,” Iorveth smirked. “First things first, we need to get to my unit’s camp, but you’re not going anywhere like this.” He quickly undid the belt buckled over his knotted sash and leaned over the vatt’ghern, belt at the ready.  
  
“To the _grrround_ ,” the man repeated with some difficulty, his voice slurring; then his eyes closed and his body turned limp.  
  
Out cold.  
  
That would make things so much easier.  
  
Quickly, Iorveth tied his own belt around the vatt’ghern’s leg to stop the bleeding, leaving the other one in place; he did not want to mess with that. Not here. He had a healer in his unit, she would be able to save this one’s leg and brew him some medicine.  
  
Iorveth quickly removed the man’s swords and slung their harnesses over his left shoulder. He crouched down and lifted the vatt’ghern, slinging him over his right shoulder and holding on to the man’s right leg. Then he started walking.  
  
By the time he arrived at his unit’s camp the sky was a reddish orange; it wouldn’t be long before the sun set for the day. Already he noticed the elves’ wary glances as they spotted what he carried. “A vatt’ghern,” he told them, “one of the wolves.”  
  
Recognition appeared on their faces; they had been there in Vergen when Gwynbleidd had stood up for them, had fought along their side, and they knew that if it hadn’t been for Deargbleidd, Iorveth would have died a horrible death. All of them owed the wolves.  
  
“Call for Derae,” he told Vernossiel, already walking towards the tent that had been set up for him.  
  
Iorveth had just laid the still unconscious vatt’ghern on his pallet when the she-elf entered, carrying her bag with medical equipment.  
  
After what had happened in Flotsam, Derae had given up her job in the brothel, and once her grief over Margot had become somewhat bearable she had set out after them and had joined them in Vergen, having heard of Saskia’s ideals. She hadn’t been a fighter before, and she still didn’t like to participate in any blood shedding, but at least she could defend herself now; Iorveth had made sure to give her some rigorous training the moment they had all been cast out. Now she was their unit’s healer, and she’d taken to the profession like a duck did to water.  
  
“Vernossiel said you’d brought a vatt’ghern?” Derae asked, her eyes already focusing on her patient.  
  
Undoing his bandana and stuffing the damp fabric in the pocket of his jacket, Iorveth nodded. “Found him near Hochebuz, caught in a metal trap after falling from at least a dozen metres’ height.”  
  
Derae looked up sharply. “Such a fall would kill a man.”  
  
Holding out his hands to his sides, Iorveth gave her a cocky grin. “And yet, he’s alive…” He let his arms drop and sighed, turning grave. “For now, at least. The tourniquet’s been on him for two hours, if I remember the sun correctly. No idea how long he had his own messed up attempt on before I found him…”  
  
Nodding, Derae set down her pack and started rummaging around in it. “Then there’s not much time. Help me,” she ordered. “Take off your gloves and jacket. Wash your hands, I have need of them.”  
  
When asked later, Iorveth wouldn’t be able to say how long they’d been busy. Derae had been steadfast in her approach, sure of her actions, and together they’d managed to undress the unconscious vatt’ghern; or at least, to take off his armour the decent way. Derae and Iorveth had taken one look at the man’s mangled leg before deciding that a sharp blade was the better approach here.  
  
There had been blood, and Derae had kept on muttering ‘stitch red to red, white to white, and everything will be all right’ as she took care of the vatt’ghern’s mangled leg. And all through the procedure the man didn’t give a kick. No sound. No twitch. It was like he was dead to the world.  
  
Iorveth finally stepped outside of his tent, wearing a clean shirt, and he inhaled deeply, letting the fresh night air replace the metallic smell of blood. The stars were up and out, and farther beyond their camp nocturnal animals scurried about. The smells of venison scorching over a smouldering fire reached his nostrils and Iorveth breathed in deeply, pressing a hand to his stomach.  
  
“I’ve done all I can for him right now,” Derae said quietly as she finally stepped out of the tent, clutching her bag in her hand.  
  
Iorveth nodded. “Thanks for your help.”  
  
“Glad to be of service,” Derae replied before looking over her shoulder and pointing back towards the tent. “I’ve left out some herbs, different ones to deal with pain and infection, I’m sure you’re familiar with them. He needs to be watched for signs of a fever, and when one does set in you need to make sure it doesn’t get too high. Call me immediately if it does.”  
  
“I will,” Iorveth promised, ignoring the rumbling coming from his belly. He really wanted his belt back so he could throttle the noise, but he’d first need to do some serious laundry. At least he’d gotten good in washing blood stains out of his clothes.  
  
“I’ll ask Vernossiel to bring you some food,” Derae said, patting him on the shoulder.  
  
“Have something brought for Dhubleidd as well,” he told her. “Oh, and a bucket of cold water and some soap!”  
  
The healer waved her hand in the air as she walked away, and Iorveth could just hear the ‘yeá, yeá’ she hadn’t actually uttered; leaving him in charge of overseeing the vatt’ghern’s health.  
  
Feeling the cool breeze of the wind, Iorveth closed his eye, enjoying the sensation even though it made him shudder as his hair felt clammy and freezing. But he felt _alive_ , even despite the by now familiar sense of hollowness in his chest.  
  
With a sigh, he entered his tent and sat down on the floor, preparing for a long watch…  
  
The rest of the night had gone smoothly. Vernossiel had brought him some venison and a cold broth for the vatt’ghern, and had later returned with the requested bucket of cold water and a bar of soap.  
  
After taking care of his own gear, Iorveth had helped the unconscious man drink the broth, and when he started twitching Iorveth had checked his brow with the back of his fingers before reaching for one of the vials Derae had left behind. The expected fever had set in…  
  
It was when the hue of pre-dawn filtered through the tent that Iorveth perked his ears and focused on his ailing guest. By rote, he felt the man’s brow, worried that the fever seemed to be higher than before, but this time bleary eyes looked up at him.  
  
“Ai-d’n?” The vatt’ghern wheezed.  
  
Slowly pulling back his hand, unwilling to upset the man with sudden and unexpected moves, Iorveth hushed him. “No, Dhubleidd, but you’re safe here. You’re with friends.”  
  
“Hmm,” the vatt’ghern hummed, already dozing off.  
  
A full day passed after that, and Iorveth was relieved by Derae so he could get some sleep and fresh air. Vernossiel too helped out, though his commander had mixed feelings about helping what she was convinced was a human. Iorveth was glad for their help; while he owed the vatt’ghern’s brothers it irked him to sit still for too long. It was one thing to be responsible for someone’s death, a whole other thing to be responsible for their life.  
  
The vatt’ghern’s fever lingered, but it didn’t get too bad to need Derae’s intervention, so all in all it was an uneventful time.  
  
After the second night, just as dawn approached, there was finally a change in the man’s state. The vatt’ghern twitched and then rolled his head, and his golden eyes flickered as they immediately settled on Iorveth. A frown appeared on the man’s brow, but it was gone in a blink.  
  
“I-,” he started before he swallowed heavily and tried again. “I recognise your face.”  
  
Iorveth resisted the urge to touch his scars and instead smirked. “Well, that’s good. Guess your eyesight wasn’t so shit after all?”  
  
“From the wanted posters,” the man added, looking at Iorveth like he was some weird kind of puzzle.  
  
Iorveth shrugged. His wanted poster had been up for years, it was nothing new to him.  
  
“Also… You saved me,” the vatt’ghern said, as if testing out the words.  
  
Iorveth moved closer and examined the man’s eyes, automatically reaching up to touch his fevered brow. “I thought it made for a nice change.”  
  
“Huh?” The man pushed his hand away, clearly annoyed.  
  
“To be the one doing the rescuing, helping out, part,” Iorveth clarified.  
  
The vatt’ghern scoffed. “You… Iorveth the woodland fox, famed Scoia’tael leader, helping out a _human_?”  
  
Iorveth sat back and shook his head. “You’re not human, you’re a vatt’ghern.”  
  
The man gave him a salty look and, with one shaky and bandaged hand, pointed towards his ear. “Fuck off, elf. I’m still human, even with my mutations. You don’t get to take that from me.” And there was so much grief and anger in his words that Iorveth decided to let it slide.  
  
“Don’t you start,” the vatt’ghern told him snidely.  
  
“I didn’t say anything,” Iorveth retorted, getting irked by this one’s prickly attitude.  
  
Startled, the man shook his head and grimaced, looking around the tent. “Wasn’t speaking to you.”  
  
Iorveth pointedly looked around the tent that was empty besides the two of them.  
  
“Forget about it,” the man hissed, closing his eyes before startling and opening them again, looking at him intently. “Oh crap, I mean – thanks. For the saving, and all.” There was an honest apologetic look on his face.  
  
Iorveth accepted the apology. “You’re welcome, Dhubleidd.”  
  
“I got a name, you know,” the vatt’ghern sulked and started agitatedly tapping the pallet.  
  
“As a matter of fact, I don’t,” Iorveth told him.  
  
The tapping stopped. “Huh?”  
  
“I know you’re the brother of Gwynbleidd and Deargbleidd, a vatt’ghern of the wolf school, but that is all,” Iorveth expounded.  
  
“Geralt and _who_?” The man asked, but Iorveth could see him connecting the dots already. “ _Eskel._ Red wolf. And me, black.” He actually laughed and clutched at his leg in a bid to keep it still. “Original, elf. The name’s Lambert, and seriously, thanks for saving my ass.”  
  
Iorveth felt a fond smile twitching at his lips. “Ceádmil, Lambert, _Dhubleidd_. The way things are going, I believe I shall soon have met all you lot. There’s still your mentor, is there not?”  
  
The laughter stilled, and a mask settled over Lambert’s face, his fists clenching at his sides. Iorveth already knew the answer he would give. “There’s not. He was murdered, three years ago.”  
  
This was the part that Iorveth always hated. What did one say to one who’d suffered a loss? He had despised it when he was given condolences and empty platitudes. Yes, the loss was tragic, and no, unless you can bring back the dead the way they were you can’t help me. “Did you catch his killer?” He asked instead, realising he was treading tricky grounds.  
  
“Geralt got him,” Lambert answered, blinking furiously before closing his eyes and taking a shuddering breath. “Broiled the bastard.”  
  
“Good.” Iorveth stood up and started fiddling around with the vials and herbs Derae had left behind, giving the vatt’ghern a bit of time to compose himself. After a few minutes he frowned, holding up some of the herba zirael. “You’re a vatt’ghern,” he started, wondering out loud…  
  
“And you’re Aen Seidhe,” Lambert retorted, his voice still carrying a light waver.  
  
Nodding, Iorveth sat down next to the pallet and held up the dried flower petals. “Glad we cleared that up,” he told him sardonically. “You make potions, to strengthen yourself in battle, but also to heal yourself, do you not? Accelerated healing?”  
  
Lambert nodded, one of his hands shooting towards his side, where Iorveth knew he had carried his potion’s satchel. Only two of his vials had survived, and they were unlabeled, so neither Iorveth nor Derae had wanted to try their luck with them.  
  
Standing up again, Iorveth went to the vatt’ghern’s gear and retrieved the two remaining potions, showing them to Lambert as he sat back down. “Are these of any use to you, to heal?”  
  
Lambert shook his head. “I need swallow. Most useful potion, and the base formula isn’t too difficult to make. Would be nice to heal up, pain’s driving me crazy.”  
  
Iorveth threw him a deadpan look and pushed the bottle of painkiller towards him. “You could have said earlier,” he groused, “got a painkiller right here.”  
  
“No offence, but a witcher’s metabolism is different; mutated, enhanced. So unless you tell me this potion here is strong enough for an elephant it’s gonna be pretty useless to me.” Despite his words, there was a hopeful look on Lambert’s face.  
  
Iorveth had actually seen one of those animals. “Swallow it is. How is it made?”  
  
Lambert’s eyes flitted to the right, and it looked like he was debating something, but then he seemed to come to a conclusion, nodding. “Swallow, the basic formula, is a standard bottle of dwarven spirit, the petals of five celandine blossoms, and a handful of ginatia or hellebore petals. I’d prefer the hellebore petals, actually, because of the additional rubedo, but if you can’t find those then ginatia will serve.”  
  
Iorveth had no idea what rubedo was. “We’ve got the herba zirael and dwarven spirit. I shall ask Vernossiel to search for hellebore. Shouldn’t take her long, they’re pretty common around here.” He stepped out of the tent and passed on his message to her to the nearest elf before returning inside.  
  
“What are you doing this far west?” Lambert asked, out of the blue. “Geralt told me when you parted ways that you’d decided to stay in Vergen…”  
  
Sitting down next to him, Iorveth sighed; disappointed and angry.  
  
“Look, forget I asked,” Lambert said hurriedly, seeing the look on his face.  
  
“If you must know,” Iorveth started, “Vergen’s ruler has cast us out the moment the Catriona plague was detected within the city walls. We have been hunting down a man ever since. A Nilfgaardian.”  
  
“Huh,” Lambert muttered.  
  
Iorveth glared at him.  
  
“You’re good at hunting, we’ve all heard the tales,” the vatt’ghern told him. “Trust you have a reason to go after a specific Nilfgaardian.”  
  
“True.”  
  
“So why _this_ particular one?” Lambert pressed.  
  
Exhaling loudly, Iorveth started fiddling with a loose thread of the pallet. “He was supposed to have something that the world needs.”  
  
Lambert huffed. “Pointy ears, check. Cryptic speech, check. Congratulations, you’re definitely an elf.”  
  
Iorveth poked him in the shoulder. “He was a scientist. Hector Krafft Ebbing, a rogue medic also known as-”  
  
“Martin,” Lambert interrupted, a bemused look on his face.  
  
“You’ve heard of him.” Iorveth perked up, wondering but not daring to hope.  
  
“I have.” The vatt’ghern looked thoughtful, and he looked like a man desperately willing himself to remember a vital piece of information. “Alexander’s notes,” he finally said, “that’s where I’ve read the name.”  
  
“Hmm,” Iorveth’s hopes sagged. The sorcerer Alexander had died on Fyke Isle during a peasant revolt several years back. Iorveth had travelled there with a few elves of his unit when he’d heard rumours of unethical experiments being performed, but it had been too late. The tower had been ransacked and the lab completely destroyed.   
  
“He was a friend of Keira,” Lambert continued, speaking slower, his words starting to slur a bit, “one who turned out to have dark secrets. What he did, the research he performed… Keira was appalled when Geralt finally decided to hand her the notes.”  
  
“Notes?” Iorveth asked, curious.  
  
Lambert yawned so widely Iorveth got a good look at the vatt’ghern’s tiny fangs. “Alexander’s experiments…” he muttered tiredly, “he kept a detailed log. Keira’s been working on a cure. Just before I set out she went back to the hospital to check on the volunteers. She’s a _good_ sorceress. Nothing like that monster…” he trailed off, closing his eyes.  
  
Iorveth blinked at this new piece of information and shoved the little fluttering feeling of hope back where it came from. It was better to expect nothing out of this: expect the worst, don’t believe it until you see it. It was less painful that way. But this was a vatt’ghern, Gwynbleidd’s brother… “You mentioned Keira before. Who is she? Where can I find her?”  
  
A silly smile broke out on Lambert’s face. “Been living with her for three years now… ”  
  
“Will you take me to her?” Iorveth asked. “Dhubleidd?” He carefully touched the man’s shoulder when no response was forthcoming.  
  
Lambert twitched, roused by the touch. “Hnng?”  
  
“Will you take me to her?” Iorveth repeated, feeling frantic all of a sudden.  
  
Opening his eyes with some difficulty, Lambert nodded and covered Iorveth’s hand with his own, squeezing lightly. “Sshure,” Lambert slurred before finally drifting off again, and this time Iorveth left him to his rest, reassured by the man’s answer.  
  
“Dearme aen a'caelme tedd, Dhubleidd,” Iorveth whispered, feeling an overwhelming fondness shoot through him. The vatt’ghern of the wolf school were truly priceless.  
  
He couldn’t still the fluttering in his chest as he felt _hope_ again; the feeling was too strong for it to be pushed down and ignored. A sorceress dedicating her time to finding a cure to the Catriona plague, using detailed information she’d obtained from earlier research and experiments. It would only be a matter of time before there was a cure, of that Iorveth was sure.  
  
And once there was a cure, they may finally be able to return _home_.  
**  
The end**

**Author's Note:**

> dh'oine - human  
> cáelm – calm  
> varh'hewedd – son of a bitch (bitch's kid)  
> vatt’ghern – witcher  
> yeá - yes/yeah  
> Gwynbleidd – White Wolf  
> Deargbleidd – Red Wolf  
> Dhubleidd – Black Wolf  
> ceádmil - greetings  
> herba zirael – celandine  
> Dearme aen a'caelme tedd– dream of a calm time


End file.
